


Over the Plate

by atlanticslide



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22598740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlanticslide/pseuds/atlanticslide
Summary: The ump grunts his strike call and Jimmy grins to himself behind his mask (not that anyone else can see it).  They're going to cruise now.
Relationships: Baseball Pitcher/Baseball Catcher, Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Rookie Baseball Player/Veteran Baseball Player
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Over the Plate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dreamsofoceans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamsofoceans/gifts).



> I tried working in a few different prompts :D

The ball’s low, lower that where Jake’s got his glove positioned, lower than he knows Esco meant to send it, and Johnson watches it all the way into the glove.

“Ball four,” the ump says behind him, and Johnson drops his bat, trots off to first.

Jake thinks _fuck_ in his head, but doesn’t say it out loud. Two on, one out, and it’s only the fucking first inning. Esco had looked good during warmup, hit every spot that Jake called and swung his arm in that way that meant he was feeling good, ready to go out and throw right the fuck now. But something’s fallen apart in the twenty minutes between their last warmup pitches and the first batter, and Esco is starting to hang his head a little.

So Jake gets up and walks up to the mound before Rodriguez can get into the batter’s box. Esco turns away just before Jake hits the mound, probably knows what’s coming, and Jake waits until Esco turns back to him.

“Get your fucking pitches over the fucking plate,” Jake tells him. The words come out vaguely muffled through the catcher’s mask, but the effect is the same as if he was shouting freely right into Esco’s face. 

Esco puts his head down, brings his glove up to cover his mouth but doesn’t say anything. He takes a long breath instead and nods slightly. He knows this, knows what he needs to do, but Jake gets up into his face, presses as close as he can with his mask just about hitting the bill of Esco’s cap. He can smell the sweat trickling down Esco’s neck and the sunscreen he’d sprayed on an hour ago, but it doesn’t really get to Jake at the moment; he’s too busy to focus too much on the shine of Esco’s arms or the way he smells, but he files it all away for later.

"You listenin'?" Jake asks him, quiet and serious. The noise of the stadium, the crowd, is a distant rumble, easily tuned out, but he can hear the beat of footsteps against dirt behind him signaling the ump coming out to hurry them along, so he gives Esco a quick shake to get the point across.

"I hear you," Esco replies just as the ump reaches the outer edge of the mound. Esco gives Jake a thump on the chest with his glove. Jake nods in response and then turns to head back behind the plate before the ump can say anything to them.

Jake settles back in behind the plate, sits back a bit on his heels while Rodriguez steps in and takes a practice swing. He doesn't spend any time checking out Rodriguez, or his swing; instead, Jake glares out at Esco. Esco glares back, and to anyone else it might be totally imperceptible, but Jake knows him well enough by know to recognize that clench to his jaw, the slight roll that he gives of his left shoulder. 

Jake throws down two fingers, calling for a fastball; Esco's been all over the plate for the first three batters of the game, despite the out, so Jake's pretty sure that Rodriguez (and his first base coach) is going to be cautious, waiting for something off the plate. 

Esco gives Jake that slight nod, takes his stance, and sends the pitch straight down the middle, right past Rodriguez's bat, still sitting on his shoulder. The ball hits Jake's glove with a loud _smack_ and the scoreboard behind right field flashes 99. 

The ump grunts his strike call and Jake grins to himself behind his mask (not that anyone else can see it). They're going to cruise now.

-

Francisco Escobar made his Major League debut after a whirlwind trip through the minors on a breezy Sunday afternoon in September. At 23, he was nearly a decade behind Jake in both age and Majors experience, and Jake had had a strange and immediate mix of irritation and protectiveness for the wide-eyed kid from Colombia. At 31, Jake had just enough years in the game and just enough pain starting to grow in his knees to give him an air of cynicism that he’d never really had in his younger days, and he often had moments of being unable to recognize himself in the snapping tone he’d use on some of his teammates, particularly the younger and less experienced guys. It was often his first assumption when a new guy came up with that bright-eyed stare, that the seriousness and the drive just wasn’t going to be there. 

He’d come up with the Twins but spent most of his major league career following an early trade bouncing around the National League, finally ending up with the Mets. After five years of near-misses in or just shy of the playoffs, his patience had begun to wear thin and the “just wait ‘till next year” mentality just irritated him. New guys always seemed to either be too jumpy, too nervous, too intimidated, or too hot-headed, too big for their britches, too desperate for super-stardom, and Jake had little time for either one. 

When Esco first showed up, Jake brushed off his big, dark eyes that always seemed to be shining as an indication of the former - totally green, easily intimidated, not going to make it past September callups onto the ML club out of Spring Training next season. Esco seemed hesitant to speak to anyone outside of the Latin guys when he first joined the club, a common occurrence for the Spanish-speaking players on every team Jake had played for, and his wide smile seemed just a little too sweet, a little too innocent to withstand a 162-game season. 

Jake figured he’d be catching the kid for a month, max, and then he’d probably never see him again, despite the low-level hype that had accompanied Esco through the minors and into September; Major League hitters can hype dead in a matter of innings. 

His first big league inning gave Esco four earned runs to his ML stats, along with five hits and three walks. They were home that day, hosting the Marlins, and starting a game by handing the other team the lead had always pissed Jake off something fierce. Back in the duggout he shouldered past Esco - then still “Escobar” to him - and slammed his mitt against the bench, hoping to make his anger clear. He turned back towards the other end of the duggout, expecting to find Esco shrinking back, intimidated, proving every one of Jake’s expectations right.

Instead, Esco stood like a brick wall next to the water cooler, hands on his hips and shoulders squared, his eyes dark and angry. Jake actually cocked his head back, he was so surprised at the sight. He wasn’t thirsty, but he walked over to the water anyway and grabbed a green Gatorade cup before turning to glare at Esco.

“You wanna move, kid?” he barked with all of the authority of a guy just barely into his 30s. 

When Esco didn’t, Jake had a moment of uncertainty, unsure, suddenly, how much Esco even understood of English. Maybe there’d been a miscommunication somewhere in their pre-game warmup, maybe a sign had been lost in translation, even with a literal translator there with them. They’d met maybe two days before, barely spent any time speaking (or trying to speak), Jake hadn’t really given much thought to him at all, too focused on his actual starting rotation, the ones who mattered, and the late season ache in his right knee that always flared up around September. 

Point being, Esco stayed standing where he was, glaring at Jake, while Jake stood dumbly with an empty gatorade cup in his hand. 

“You two fighting already?” one of the other guys asked as he walked by, not waiting for an answer, and Jake threw him and scowl. When he turned back, Esco was heading down the tunnel.

“Asshole,” Jake grumbled, not even completely sure what he was angry about by this point. 

If it was June or July, one of the coaches would be coming over already to ask Jake what he thought about Esco, if the kid could go at least five or if they should start getting the pen ready, but it was September, they were six games out from elimination, and hopes for the playoffs were slim enough for Esco to have a long leash. 

At two outs, he headed down the tunnel to retrieve Esco, maybe go over the signs again and try to buck him up or something, and half-expected to find him crying in the shower or something, but instead found him staring at one of the video screens in the clubhouse, watching footage from the top half of the inning. His eyes were fixed on the screen, didn’t even seem to notice Jake come in, and Jake stopped short to watch him for a brief moment, taking in the squared slope of his shoulders, the line of sweat down the side of his neck that made his skin shine, the intensity of his eyes. His jaw was clenching, again and again, and Jake could see his eyes shifting ever so slightly from one point on the screen to another.

“The fuck’re you two doin’ down here?” The voice belonging to Matts, their pitching coach, came thundering down the tunnel from the field, startling Jake out of his gaze. 

Esco turned and looked startled as well when he found Jake standing there dumbly, and he looked shiftily from Jake to the TV screen and back again, like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, guilty like the kid he was. 

Jake’s irritation came back like a brick through a window, and he turned on his heel to march back up to the duggout to get his gear on, grumbling over his shoulder to Esco, “You think we can get some fuckers out this time?” and not caring whether or not the guy could understand. 

The top of the second saw the bases loaded on two walks and a base hit, and Jake sighed heavily before trotting out to the mound to try and do _something_ to stem the bleeding. Every sign he put down, Esco seemed to shake off; every pitch they settled on, Esco missed the mark. 

“Put it over the fucking plate, asshole,” Jake told him, the words muffled against his mask. He’d never been one for coddling his pitchers. “Work _with_ me, stop trying to work against me.” He paused for a beat, then added with a sigh, “If you even know what the fuck I’m saying.”

He watched Esco’s eyes narrow, and then Esco lifted his mit up to cover the lower half of his face.

“ _You_ stop working against _me_.” The words were muffled, but their intensity was clear, and Jake was caught off guard for a moment. “I can do this,” Esco continued. 

He didn’t say it, but the meaning was there. _Stop doubting me_. Jake wasn’t convinced, but he handed Esco the ball.

“Then show me.” 

And Esco did. Double-play and a dribbler to first and they were out of the inning, the score still held at 4-0. 

Three hours later and the Mets lost, 4-2, and their playoff expectations were reduced from “unlikely” to “nearly hopeless,” but Esco had kept the Fish to that first inning four and only give up three more hits and a pair of walks over six innings. Not a _great_ start to his Major League Career, but Jake had seen a change over the first couple of innings that held some promise.

After the game, Esco was showered and dressed and fidgeting in front of his locker before most of the rest of the guys had even gotten down to the clubhouse. He was back to looking a little deer-in-the-headlights, a little innocent and unsure about how he’d ended up here, and Jake felt a pang of something he couldn’t quite define - guilt, maybe, but a little more like… just wanting to make sure the kid was okay after his first big league start and his first big league loss, even though Jake had wanted to throttle him a few hours ago. 

He didn’t do anything, and instead just headed to the shower, and washed three hours of sweat from his shoulders and thighs and hair, trying not to think about Esco’s big, shining eyes. 

After he was dressed, he ran a hand through his damp curls and lingered around his locker, busying himself with nothing as the other guys slowly filtered out of the clubhouse. When the room was mostly empty, he headed over to Esco and leaned against the side of the locker next to his, unsure what exactly he wanted to say.

“So you actually speak English then?” was what came out, to Jake’s own surprise. 

Esco looked annoyed for a moment, a brief flash of his earlier fire flitting across his face, before standing and gathering his backpack, shoving his wallet and generic black Nike ballcap inside. 

“I lived in this country three years,” he replied, looking up at Jake with an air of defiance. His words were accented rather beautifully and full of a confidence that made Jake want to smile despite himself and despite how dumb he felt about his own presumptions. “You just assume I know nothing. _Including_ how to pitch.”

“You got the shit kicked out of you in your first inning,” Jake told him, not trying to sound mean (for once). “I’ve seen a lotta guys come up here, get their asses handed to them, and head back down to AAA, never to be heard from again.”

“So, what?” Esco asked with a shake of his head, dark strands of hair that looked a little too long for him falling across his forehead. “You just give up on a new guy before we even finish a game? You make no sense.” 

“Maybe,” Jake replied, shrugging, not really offended. Esco wasn’t wrong. “Prove me wrong, then.” 

He didn’t mean anything flirtatious by it, but there was something tugging at him, making him want to smile. Esco gave him a long look in response, way longer than was strictly comfortable, and Jake found himself suddenly feeling warm under his collar, his chest a little tight.

Jake’s sexuality was something of an open secret among the guys he was close to on the team; he didn’t talk about it much, but no one ever asked why he was single or who he was dating or what girl he was going to take home from the bar after a game. He definitely wasn’t public about it, but when he slipped away now and then while the team was on the road to meet up with someone he’d found on Grindr, no one ever batted an eye or asked him anything more than how his night was the next morning. 

He’d confessed once, in a moment of drunken angst, to one of his closest friends, Carter, who’d been through the minors with him and then shipped off to the Angels, when the Mets had been in L.A. to play the Dodgers. It had been a slog of a road trip and no one was playing well, and Jake had just broken it off with a guy he’d been seeing casually for a few months and starting to fall for. 

“It’s too dangerous,” he’d told Carter after a few beers, and Carter stayed quiet, sipping his whiskey, until the words came tumbling out of Jake’s mouth: “I’m gay. And I’m always worried, and I’m tired.”

Carter grasped him by the shoulder and didn’t comment when Jake let loose a few tears, and then got him another beer before telling him not to worry about what anyone else thought of him.

After that, Jake loosened up a little about how tightly he kept his secret, and never ran into an issue with any of his teammates. But he’d never really run into _this_ particular issue before - guys were guys and he might take notice of who was around him, but he’d never found himself just… caught staring like this. 

Escobar was all dark hair and dark eyes, a few inches taller than Jake but leaner muscle and slimmer build. His mouth was a tight, thin line at the moment, but Jake could see a hint of a smile there tugging at the corners, and suddenly he was unsure about a lot of things.

“First inning is always rough for me,” Esco said, finally, breaking his gaze away and turning to fiddle with something in his locker. Just like that the moment was gone. That nervous energy was back, surrounding Esco like a mist suddenly settling in on a mountaintop. “I need… I don’t know. To see the lineup through and then I’m good.” He shrugged, looking self-conscious, and Jake refused to let him off the hook, despite the pang of discomfort he felt at seeing this guy he’d just met look so glum all of a sudden. 

“That ain’t gonna fly up here,” Jake told him, trying not to sound too unkind, but deadly serious at the same time. “You may’ve been able to get away with a shaky inning in AA. Not even sure how you got away with it in AAA. But up here that shit’ll get you sent down right quick.” 

Esco turned back to look at him, and Jake almost took a step back, weirdly nervous himself all of a sudden, especially at the open, almost vulnerable expression that Esco was wearing. Jake hated shit like this, no matter which pitcher he was dealing with, and he’d rather have seen the kid get punted to the bullpen or DFA’ed than have to look at those eyes that said Esco was trying so hard. 

It had only been one game, and this kid was getting under Jake’s skin enough that Jake actually cared, a little about seeing him succeed beyond what it meant for the team. And for no reason except for how coolly defiant Esco was once pushed a little, how confident he was overall, despite the wreck of a first inning. 

“You have to work too,” Esco told him as he slung his backpack over his shoulders. He folded his arms across his chest and looked as if he was trying to come across as much older than his 23 years. And it was half bad of an effort. “At this. At working with me. I don’t know how you handle anyone else.” His eyebrows raised a bit at that and Jake was momentarily captivated by the movement. “But me - stop pretending I am a child to be pushed around. Plan with me, not just tell me what to do. I know how to pitch.”

Jake considered him for a long, tense moment, flicking his eyes briefly down to Esco’s mouth and watching Esco watch him. 

“Like I said.” Jake shrugged, his tone perhaps maybe a little intentionally flirty now. Esco’s pushback was doing something to him, and he had no real intentions here, but he couldn’t quite help himself. “Prove it to me.”

He thought, fleetingly, of asking Esco to get a beer, but he let the moment pass and instead headed past the kid to head out of the clubhouse and into the muggy New York evening.

-

It’s three years later when Jake shoves Esco against the wall of his hotel room after finishing up a three-hit game and grabbing for his belt.

They’ve been fucking for two years and ten months. Jake’s resolve not to get involved with a teammate, one of his pitchers, a guy ten years younger than him, hadn’t lasted long.

He presses his body against Esco’s and shoves his tongue into Esco’s mouth, shuddering at the other man’s moan. A good game has always done it for him; a well-pitched game is even better. A game in which Esco falters and then picks himself up and shows the other team and the stadium and the TV audience at home just how fucking good he can be makes Jake crazy.

They kiss, hard and fast, standing against the hotel room wall for a few minutes, both of them breathing heavy and desperate, rubbing hands up each other’s arms and into hair. Esco tugs on Jake’s curls, a little long now because Esco likes it that way, and Jake thinks not for the first time how strange his life has become, wrapped up in this 26-year-old. 

It still feels like a mistake, sometimes, potentially a massive one - with nearly three years in the league, Esco is practically a veteran, but Jake is in the twilight of his career. His playing time has been cut shorter and shorter, and now he’s been relegated to backup catcher and mostly just catches Esco these days. Soon enough he’ll be done altogether, and he only has a vague idea of what comes next - for himself and for the two of them. 

He worries, sometimes, about Esco’s career, about the two of them. He’s voiced it before, when Esco has hinted at maybe wanting to come out, and Jake has stubbornly talked him out of it - _maybe in a few years; maybe when you’re retired; maybe when you sign a longterm contract and you prove to everyone the superstar you are and you don’t have to worry about anyone looking for excuses to run you out_. Mostly the same things he’s told himself over the years. It never sits well with Esco, and seeing his eyes so disappointed and unhappy makes Jake’s stomach churn, but he knows he’s right. They’ve never even really defined what they are to each other - Jake too nervous about the idea of putting a label on a relationship with a guy so much younger, a relationship already so precarious in its context, too worried that once he does something stupid like saying _I love you_ out loud, Esco will wise up and walk away and their game will turn to shit. Not to mention Jake’s heart turning to shit. 

He’s pretty sure he does, though; it’s been long enough since he could actually say he’s been in love that it’s sometimes hard to know, hard to define for himself, but there’s something about Esco that’s always pulled at him - the confidence, maybe, the drive to do well. The way he smiles. His eyes. Off the field, Jake gets a little dopey for him. On the field, they’re beautiful together. 

Jake kisses him again, trying to pour all of it into the kiss, make sure Esco knows everything about how Jake feels even if Jake doesn’t have the guts to say it (and isn’t sure he really wants Esco to know). Esco’s hands come to rest on Jake’s neck, his thumbs moving gently over Jake’s cheekbones, and Jake thinks, vaguely, that he probably knows.

He pulls back briefly so he can yank Esco’s t-shirt off - it’s one of Jake’s University of Michigan t-shirts from a million years ago, that Esco tends to pick up off of Jake’s apartment floor when they’re in New York. When anyone asks about the shirts (which isn’t often), Esco tells them that he had a friend who went to school there, and he wears them around the clubhouse, charming Jake beyond sense. 

For now, Jake tosses the shirt over his shoulder before pulling his own off and then goes back into grab another kiss from Esco, loving the feel of their chests pressed together. Esco is young enough, fit enough, to be almost all muscle, while Jake’s put on a few more pounds since passing 35. Somehow, as with everything else between them, they fit together well. 

Esco drags his fingers through Jake’s hair again and moans when Jake bites the side of his neck. Jake loves these moments, keyed up and desperate after a good, solid win. It’s hard, sometimes, to realize that soon enough these moments will be gone. With the end of his contract in sight in just over a year, he’s been vaguely tossing around his options, but hasn’t been able to really bring himself to go down that thought path yet.

Esco gets Jake’s jeans undone, shoves his hands down the back of Jake’s boxers to grab his ass, then runs his hands around to press into Jake’s thighs as he pushes Jake’s jeans down.

“I love your legs,” Esco whispers, his voice thick and heady and breath moist against Jake’s cheek. “So strong. Makes me crazy sometimes, when I see you from the mound, when I see you squat.”

Esco’s maybe the only person in the world who can make the word “squat” sound sexy. His voice, his accent, it does things to Jake. He loves listening to Esco speak. 

He flexes the muscles in his thighs a little to get Esco to moan and dig his nails into Jake’s skin. 

Once they’re both finally naked, Esco pushes Jake back against the bed and fucks him hard, fast, unceremoniously. There are lots of times when they go slow, almost too gentle for Jake’s comfort, full of emotion, but the adrenaline after a good game is too good, too fiery for sweet and slow. They groan into each other’s mouths and bite at each other’s lips and it all feels so fucking _good_. Jake can’t quite remember what life was like, what _he_ was like before this. 

When he comes a few minutes later, Esco’s staring at him with his eyes wide and hair wild and the stupid farmer’s tan they all get is so stark on his skin, and Jake runs his thumb over the mole on Esco’s shoulder, feeling overcome, and blurts out, clumsily, “Te amo”.

Esco pulls his head back, looking startled, and comes suddenly inside of Jake, making Jake squirm. They stay like that, Jake on his back and Esco poised above hm, for a long moment before Esco finally pulls out and pulls the condom off to toss in the trash next to the bed. Jake has a momentary pang of worry, unsure why he’d even said it, but feeling more confident to have it come out in Spanish than in English. It had felt more safe, somehow, to say it in Esco’s language rather than his own. 

Esco’s tried more than once to encourage Jake to learn Spanish. “So many players in the league,” he’s said. “You not going to talk to any of them?” Jake’s argued that they can learn English just like Esco, and Esco always shakes his head, looking disappointed and making Jake feel vaguely like shit, and asks, “Why should we learn and you not?”

Jake’s never actually said out loud that he’s been thinking of coaching after his playing career is done, but Esco is a little too intuitive sometimes, or maybe just hopeful.

“How you expect to talk to your players as a coach, if you don’t speak their language?” 

After years of stubborness, a few months ago Jake finally broke down and download Duoloingo, practicing discreetly on flights and before Esco wakes up in the morning, learning ridiculous things like “my father has eggs” and “the ball is under the table,” and eventually hired a private tutor to teach him some actually useful shit. 

One of the first things he’d asked how to say was _I love you_. 

“You speak Spanish now?” Esco asks him as he’s still catching his breath, his face red and eyes shining in that way that still gets Jake right in the gut. 

Jake shrugs a little and lifts his arm to let Esco come settle against him, bringing his hand around to brush up and down Esco’s back. “I’m trying. I…” he swallows hard and turns his head so he can rest his chin against Esco’s forehead and won’t have to look at him as he speaks. “I want to be able to speak to all of my players when I’m a coach.” 

He can feel the smile against his skin, and he sends a thrill through him, makes him clutch Esco against him a little tighter. Esco presses his face against Jake’s neck and whispers something in Spanish too advanced for Jake to understand, but Jake’s pretty sure he’s got the gist. 

And in any case, he’s going to learn.


End file.
